We Hate to Leave
by dansunedisco
Summary: Logan goes to Fleet Week, Veronica is interning in the same city, and fate deigns to bring them together for a brief moment. An extreme pre-movie "what if?" scenario.


**Note:** Written for VM Fic Recs' August Fic Prompts, Option Two - Fleet Week.

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**We Hate to Leave**

The door to the stateroom swings open, and Logan's hands pause briefly. He isn't sure whom he had been expecting to burst in, but it's only Garcia, stumbling in with a garment bag draped over his arm.

"You're late," he says.

Garcia groans, loudly and obnoxiously, and kicks the door closed behind him. "Aw, damn. They got your ass, too?"

Logan sighs, and continues on in buttoning up his shirt. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"I do have eyes, thanks. What I meant is somehow you always manage to weasel out of the volun-telling crap."

"And yet." Logan shrugs, not much else to say because what Garcia said was true. Everyone knows he's an Echolls—full relation—and his Commanding Officer seemed to recognize that that courts more bad press than good. But hushed talks of favoritism stirred up in the wardroom these past few months because of it, and Logan knew his turn at playing PR monkey would start immediately. Coincidentally, just in time for Fleet Week.

Logan doesn't care either way. He prefers to avoid public speaking, but he's used to being marched along for public spectacle. At least, in the Navy, he can delegate the actual talking to others less fortunate than he. He supervised the set-up of the hangar bay—the hanging of the ceremonial American flag on the centerline bulkhead, and the quartermaster flags overhead. The PAO conned him into overseeing the display assembly, too, and he had begged the Chief's mess to provide bodies for tour guides. But he won't be doing the physical song-and-dance.

"Hey, hand me that lint roller." Garcia is halfway into his pants, and jerks his chin in the direction of Logan's tiny metal locker.

"You have two working legs and a heartbeat, get it yourself," Logan says, not unkindly. He does a quick check on himself in the mirror—no wrinkles, pants are creased, ribbons in the right order, fresh haircut, shoes clean and ready to go.

He leaves Garcia where he's struggling to dress himself (the man was smart, but boy did he lack common sense and coordination). He considers heading down directly to the hangar, but knows he should make the rounds, make sure the predetermined tour route looks immaculate. It's still early, and he has time.

The passageways are quiet, save for the buzzing from the fluorescent lighting above. The near silence is an eerie change from the constant noise of deployment, and Logan figures this is the reason why the ship is nearly always deserted after hours. It's lonely.

He thankfully doesn't find any disasters along his route, just an empty bag of chips tucked in an angle iron, which he tosses into the nearest receptacle he passes.

The hangar bay is just as empty as the rest of the ship. The ID checkers are chatting quietly, lazily. He knows they're pissed they have morning watch the first day of Fleet Week, but duty is duty. He has OOD in two days, right in the thick of things.

He scans the open space. There's maybe ten people total hanging about. In just a few hours, Logan expects there will be over a hundred.

"Joy," he murmurs sourly, and goes to find his Chief.

The day passes quickly enough.

No one dies, or causes a PR nightmare, and perhaps it's the relief that he didn't fuck up the day that he allows Garcia to strong-arm him into going out with a group, and in uniform, no less. He barely has time to straighten himself up before he's being shoved into a cab and driven into the heart of the city. His self-imposed sobriety is a well-documented fact, and thus he's eagerly designated as the drunk-wrangler before he himself has a say. It's not a role Logan likes to play, even on a regular Saturday night, but he bites his tongue. He's responsible, now.

The bar they've chosen to debauch is overwarm, the music too loud; the DJ's playing some thumping snyth crap that could qualify as cochlea assault. It's impossible to hide in his whites, or get comfortable in the sea of bodies, and the constant attention grinds on his patience. He's already had to turn down about five offers for drinks, and another handful for dances. He nurses his diet coke, and resigns himself to a long, long night.

Of course, not ten minutes later, he's being jostled from behind. Luckily, he thumps his glass down on the sticky bar-top before its contents can slosh down his front, and he twists around to spit fire, patience officially cracked. But the words dry up in his mouth like ash.

It's Veronica.

"_Logan_?" she says. She's staring up at him in the same way he's sure he's gaping down at her; eyes wide, mouth parted, eyebrows drawn up in absolute and utter surprise. Her hair is shorter than it had been the last time he'd seen her, but blonder, though that could've been a trick of the strobe light.

"Of all the gin joints," he says, after he recovers from the shock.

Her eyes do a quick up-down check—the hair, the uniform, the shoes—and he sees her surprise dissolve into something more severe. He never did delude himself into thinking she kept tabs on him all these years, but he'd assumed she had at least heard.

(His commission made a huge splash in Life & Style last year: _Troubled Son of Aaron & Lynn Echolls Joins Navy—Exclusive Interview With Sister Reveals All_.

It wasn't at all revealing.)

She says, "Wow, I had no clue" at the same time he tries to explain, "I'm sorry, Veronica—" and they both taper off into nervous laughter. She bites her lip and looks over her shoulder, like she's looking for an out, and Logan suddenly feels cold. Their final parting shots at Hearst were near fatal, so he couldn't blame her for wanting to slip away as fast as she came, but the sting of being shrugged off never dulled when it came to her.

"Hey, um, it was great to see you," he starts, almost shyly. "Weird circumstances, huh? I'm sure you're here with some people, and I don't—"

Her eyebrow ticks up, and she presses her palm against his forearm before he can finish his sentence. "There's a spot over there behind the speakers."

She tilts her head and melts into the crowd like it's supposed to mean something, but Logan follows anyway, like he always used to; leaves his coke sweating on the bar.

Veronica has already claimed a spot by a tall table when he finally manages to elbows his way through. It's much quieter in this section, though no less crowded.

"I don't know if I'd quite call _Blue Sapphire _a gin joint," she says dryly, a wry twist to her lips. She gestures towards the ostentatious DJ booth. "I'm pretty sure Paris Hilton is spinning these sweet jams."

Logan smirks and settles in next to her. "Why else would you find me here?"

"Of course," she says with an exaggerated sigh. "You always did love Stars Are Blind. What_ever_ was I thinking?"

"It's a classic," he says, struck with the familiarity of slipping back into old patterns. He taps his index finger on the sticky tabletop. "So what brings you to New York?"

"Internship," she says and doesn't elaborate. Her gaze flickers down his uniform deliberately. "Would it be impolite if I don't return the question?"

Logan bows his head forward, flicks his eyes up to meet hers. "Veronica Mars, bypassing the easy questions."

"It's my new slogan," she says. "Are you stationed here? In town for A Few Good Men revival?"

"Negative on both. Just here for Fleet Week." He pauses, then elaborates, "I'm in Norfolk for the foreseeable future."

"Virginia." Her shoulders droop, but her mouth cracks open into a wide grin. "That's exciting."

He rubs the back of his neck. "Sure is. It's been the time of my life so far." He means his tone to err on the side of sarcasm, but Veronica's expression softens.

"Are those your friends?" She points towards the dance floor, where Garcia is doing a very unfortunate and very unflattering hip swivel when Logan looks. Veronica had never been a fan of his friends and associates, but Logan could see her warming up to these ones.

"'Friend' is a relative term. However, I _am_ obligated to make sure they survive the night," he explains. "More work for me on Monday if they don't make it back. Where's your entourage?"

"Can't a girl go for a night alone?" She flutters her eyelashes, then sighs, casts a look around that screams she would rather be anywhere but in this overblown nightclub. "I was making my grand escape when I bumped into you. I'm here for _team bonding_ forced upon us from corporate. Trisha, the ringleader, is over here."

She swivels around on her heel so she's facing him now, and casually snakes a hand across her chest and over her shoulder to point a finger at a leggy brunette in stilettos. A group of like-dressed women are standing around her, martinis in hand.

Logan whistles low. "The devils wear Prada. And Jimmy Choos. Do I spot some Chanel as well?"

"If you only knew," she gripes, and slips into a story of inter-office intrigue that involves grifted lunches, a blue bowl, and a very hungry accountant. Logan barters back with a few sea stories of his own.

It's easy, almost too much so, to talk to Veronica again. He waves to his crew when they vie for his attention, dutifully pretends to be chatting Veronica up when Trisha does a flyby. The vague sense of a shoe hanging over his shoulder, ready to drop, buzzes in the back of his mind, but a clear hour ticks by in light banter.

_Five years_, he thinks, as Veronica continues to give him a condensed summary of her time at Stanford, the semester abroad in France when he mentions Cannes. She's lighter. Her smiles come quicker. And the heated coil in his gut grows only hotter when he realizes she's become _this_ (well-adjusted? Normal?) without him.

She stops talking, laughs. "I hope I'm not boring you."

He ducks his chin. "I don't think you're capable of boring."

"My Pinterest board would prove you wrong, but, thanks." She opens her mouth to say something else, but squints and reaches into her pocket instead. She pulls out her cellphone, swipes at the screen with a grimace. Logan can't read the message or see who it's from, but he suspects it's from her unwanted handler.

"Logan," she starts, but he waves her off.

"It's fine," he says. "I took up enough of your time, I think."

She shakes her head. "Not at all. It was nice, seeing you again."

"You too."

They smile at each other for a beat, and Veronica breaks first by hopping over to give him a quick squeeze of a hug. He pats her back lightly, and lets her slip away, watches her go without a backward glance.

He's standing out by the curb, keeping a watchful eye over his drunken group, waiting for a cab, when he sees her next. She's walking arm-in-arm with another woman, pale hair shining blue from the neon marquee above, laugh ringing clear like a bell through the background noise. If he thought she was beautiful under the Californian sun, then she's downright ethereal in New York City lights.

He gets his phone before he can chicken out, fiddles with the keypad and types out a text message to a number he's never deleted.

_6 hours to Norfolk._

He gets _That's not far at all _during the cab ride back to the ship. It's not an invitation, but it's tinder he plans to use. Logan turns his head to hide his grin, raps a shave and a haircut against the window with his knuckles. _Five years of radio silence_, he thinks, _and not a second more_.

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**Note:** Short, bittersweet, but I think it fits in the tone of the VM world. Maybe? I hope you enjoyed!

Title comes from We Hate to Leave from Anchors Aweigh.


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